Ears to You
by Road Rhythm
Summary: Not that they've ever done the Easter Bunny thing with any regularity, but every year that they do, Dean gets hold of Sam's chocolate rabbit and eats the ears off. Doesn't matter how much vigilance Sam shows, doesn't matter how well he hides it. Every. Single. Year. [Blatant fluff]


**A/N:** Written for LJ's salt_burn_porn community for all_the_damned's prompt of _what came before this I can't remember._ Originally I wanted to take the prompt in a completely different direction, but I couldn't pull it off in time. Inspired vaguely by that J2 hand GIF that's been everywhere.

* * *

::::

* * *

Spring: season of rising sap, thickening mud, spring break nudity, and Dean never shutting up about spring break nudity. The quarter when shrinks ease off on writing scripts for antidepressants, turn over to a new page in the lengthening light and start writing scripts for anxiolytics, instead. Preferred breeding period of chupacabras (Sonoran). And, of course, the time when grocery stores teem with elaborately molded, nominally chocolate novelties.

Not that Sam and Dean have ever really done the whole Easter Bunny thing with any regularity, but every year that they have, Dean's gotten hold of Sam's chocolate rabbit and eaten the ears off. First time, when Sam was four or five or something, Dean told him that the ears wouldn't grow back and that from now on the Easter Bunny would be earless. Sam busted out crying. The next time chocolate rabbits were actually purchased for them—a few days after Easter, when such things were cheaper—some years had passed, and Sam was wiser. He told Dean that he'd never see his real Converse high-tops again if the ears went missing off of Sam's rabbit, and then he'd hidden the thing. He thought he'd hidden it well, but when Sam went to dig it out—you had to wait to eat a chocolate rabbit; you just did, Sam could see that even if Dean didn't—the hollow, waxy ears were gone. Dean solved his end of the problem by basically never taking his Converse off for about ten months.

Their lifestyle didn't really allow for many good hiding places, so Sam soon went over to simple vigilance. John said that stakeouts were an important skill; for once, Sam was in agreement there. It's been his approach ever since.

And it never makes a damned bit of difference.

Never matters where he puts it, never matters how closely he watches. Never matters whether he lets the rabbit ripen for a week or a day. Never matters what time of year they even do the ritual (September, once).

Every. Fucking. Year.

Some rash of sentimentality put two chocolate rabbits into their cart when they stopped off for groceries on the way back from their last hunt: milk for Dean, dark for Sam. Solid, obviously; they're grown men, they don't fuck around with hollow bunnies. The rabbits sit side-by-side at one end of the library table. Sam sits at the other. They have their own rooms, now—in the bunker, they have rooms to spare—but Sam holds with the idea that it's best to keep them under watch in a public area, even if it's never actually made a difference to outcome either way.

From the kitchen comes clanking, scraping, swearing, and a heavy smell of onions and meat. Dean's making chili. He's good at it, Sam has to admit, but it's one of those dishes that always smells revolting until you actually start in on eating it, for Sam. Dean knows. It's half the reason he loves making it.

Dean emerges with a bowl in one hand, licking the fingers of the other. "Find anything?" he asks.

Sam inches the hand-bound, mimeographed concordance he's got open back across the table as Dean plunks down in the seat opposite. Fine droplets of chili grease spatter the top of the notebook Sam has open when the bowl lands on the table. The smell is thick and he doesn't know whether he wants to gag or go get some.

Sam thinks briefly about how to sum up hours of research in a few sentences, then decides fuck that. It's not reducible to a sound bite. He's been here working on it all day. He'll be here all night, too, because he's been to Heaven and to Hell, he's destroyed the world and saved it, and _Dean is not getting that fucking rabbit_.

"Not really."

Dean snorts and shovels a mouthful of chili in. Then he stops. "Hey," he says, mouth full, "what 'appened to your 'and?"

Sam flinches back instinctively when Dean's fingers close around his wrist, but Dean just tugs Sam's right hand across the table's center line. It's dark with bruising in some spots, still raw-red and swollen in others, but it's far from crippling. By their standards, it doesn't even rise to the level of injury. It does hurt to write with it, but he's been enjoying the sensation.

Dean turns it over, inspects it. Which hurts way more, but that's Dean for you. "The rakshasa get you?" he asks, frowning.

"No." Sam closed it in a door in the archives, in fact, but he's not admitting to that even if the alternative is letting Dean think a quarry got the drop on him.

"Everything work okay?"

 _"Yes_ , Dean." Sam tries to take his hand back again, but Dean holds on and rocks his thumb into a particularly nasty patch over the second metacarpal. Sam hisses.

"Yeah, you're fine," Dean dismisses. He doesn't let go, though.

"Dean." Sam's voice is full of false pleasantry and false patience.

"Yeah." Dean's thumb rubs over the patch, firm little circles, until the pain blends into one warm, pleasantly throbbing circle.

It's nothing worse than Sam would do to himself. He's always had a tendency to probe at his wounds, especially minor ones. It's weirdly more intense when Dean's doing it, though. Picking and prodding at yourself is a close, cosy feeling. Dean's touches have echoes.

"The hell _did_ you do this?" he wonders aloud, turning Sam's palm over and pressing his thumb into the undamaged palm. The tips of his fingers—cool, slightly callused—trace the lines of bruising on the back of Sam's hand by the temperature of Sam's skin.

Sam swallows. Dean looks up at him. He grins faintly. "Yeah?"

That makes Sam glare and yank his hand back. Innocent is never a good look on Dean. "It's _fine_ , thanks. Your chili's getting cold. And it smells."

Dean eats another spoonful, makes a face, and pushes it aside. "Not gonna get it on your precious library book, chill. What is that, anyway? Lemme see."

And despite himself Sam finds himself explaining what the concordance is of, and what he's actually been sitting here doing, and Dean's leaning across the table so intently, fingers brushing Sam's on the broad page of the concordance, that Sam is lulled into thinking that Dean actually cares about any of this. When Dean's fingertips graze precisely over the hot-singing, delicate skin on the back of his right hand, it feels exactly as if a ghostly fingernail is tracing its way down his spine to the hollow just above the cleft of his ass. The fine hairs stand up along his arm. He feels it in his back teeth.

When he looks up, he expects to see Dean smirking. Dean isn't. He's looking at Sam fixedly, with the expressionless eyes of something hungry, and any plans Sam had to stop this before his dignity gets any more compromised fall away.

Dean's fingers circle the hollow of his wrist. There's one spot on the palm side that got bruised in the crush of the secret door, just at the base of the thumb. Dean's thumb rocks into it, again, again, breath to a bellows, working it up to a bright, shining point of agony that sings from his collarbone down to his groin.

Dean comes around to crowd between Sam in his chair and the table, and Sam lets him, somehow. The concordance is forgotten. Fingertips slip under his shirt to fan over his belly as Dean's lips move along his neck. If they're greasy with chili, those lips, fuck it. It's been a while.

Sam makes to get out of the chair but Dean holds him with steady downward pressure. His hands press down on Sam's hips, of his mouth on the hollow of Sam's throat. His head's tipped back over the uncomfortable wooden chair and his cock's rigid in his jeans. There is no dignity in the position, none. Sleep deprivation has him floating, though. He was on guard most of the night before.

Sam rocks up into nothing, throat working silently. His body doesn't care what form it takes so long as sex happens, but it had better happen soon, it really, really had—

Dean goes to his knees. His touch is steady and efficient when he takes Sam out of his jeans. When he closes his mouth around the head, Sam gives in and makes a little noise.

Dean sucks him steadily and deep. He's neither hurried nor unhurried, not staving Sam's orgasm off or trying to crash it down; he hums as he moves in a way that feels marvelous around the head of Sam's cock and doesn't really get fancy, just finds a rhythm and stays with it like he could do this as gladly for seconds as for hours. He sucks like he could live off of it forever. It's the plainest blowjob Sam's ever gotten in his life. It's the best.

One hand pushes up, under Sam's shirt, makes his stomach suck in and his breath hitch on a sob. The other finds Sam's. Sam tries to grasp it, tangle them together, but Dean ignores it. His fingers travel over Sam's, exploring like they're there for Dean to play with. He wraps them around one of Sam's to stroke the fragile space between, to feel the joint work, to spark the little point over the knuckle that's bruised. It's remarkable, how light his touch can be while his hold is inescapable. His tongue cradles the underside of Sam's cock. The pads of his fingers trace the veins in Sam's wrist. His fingers crawl over Sam's one by one until his thumb is circling over and over Sam's thumbnail and the raw, little hurt there. That's when Sam becomes aware of Dean's hips rocking, of the sounds he's making in the back of his throat as he thrusts against nothing but air and his jeans trying to get off on friction alone. Sam comes.

Dean apparently does, too, at some point, because when Sam comes up from the post-orgasm daze enough to care, Dean's grumbling about needing to change his pants. This is a golden opportunity to mock the shit out of Dean, and Sam briefly considers doing it, but he feels too contented to be witty about it, and Dean's the one who can manage to make unwitty charming. Sam has a brief image of himself grasping the front of Dean's shirt and dragging his mouth down for a kiss, but he doesn't do that, either. Dean disappears off into the hallway he came out of.

Sam drags the concordance back from its safe spot away from the chili and returns to trying to trace the history and associations of the words on his list. The chili's cold, now, smell not as cloying, and there's nothing to distract him.

It's an hour before he notices the rabbit ears are gone.


End file.
